A picturesque score of passing fantasy
by Macarons and Muffins
Summary: The man with the broken heart and the woman who claims not to have one, blown together by the wind of change, living in a world where nothing is as it seems. A baker's dozen of abstract Joetina drabblets written by London, with influences from the man in the top hat and red coat who ruins weddings.
1. Introduction

**I don't own the rights to Bread, or to _A Fever You Can't Sweat Out_ , which as you may have guessed is my inspiration for this set of drabbles. If this turns out somewhat decent (though I don't know if it will tbh) I also kind of want to do a Vices and Virtues AU set (because come on, there's no way I'd do a set inspired by this album and leave the best one imo out...). Perhaps a set of steampunk Joetina drabbles... who knows? I am really into AUs right now, sorry. Sorry for ruining the bread fanfic archive with all this self-indulgence rubbish ie. Hearts and Roses, Tragedy, and now this :P**

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 _Ladies and Gentlemen; We proudly present a picturesque score of passing fantasy._

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The radio crackles ceaselessly behind him. It is fixed on static, lost in the hours between broadcasts. He does not switch it off; he stares out the pane of the window, the light illuminating his face, making it ghostly. Outside, the wind scatters raindrops along the cobblestones.

He shrugs his shoulders from the silk lining of the jacket, lets it pool on the floor around his feet. A part of his mind registers that it is cold, only thin cotton fibres protecting his arms. But nothing compares with the bitter cold that claws at his insides- why should he bother trying to make the exterior warm when the interior is _frozen_?

The words she left embedded in his brain swirl around his insides like frost. He wonders where she is- if one of the glowing lights on the horizon signals her presence. If she is thinking of him, as he is thinking of her. But he knows this will not be the case; his mind's eye envisions her body, smooth and pale as a pearl under the moonlight, entangled with sheets that reek of lust and a stranger's body.

Joey Boswell does not cry. But his eyes sting with a longing he must curb- he must be a pillar of strength, strong and focused. He cannot crumble. The view before him blurs; he digs his fingers into his scalp, tugging at the coarse hair, rubbing his palms over his face. The wind continues to dance across the sky, rattling his window, a phantom desperate to enter. His hands twitch towards the latch, but he withdraws. He does not know what will happen if he lets the wind of change into his home.

He can still hear the radio as it hisses behind him. And if he listens hard enough, between each pop of static, he can make out a strange, haunting melody. The beating of a heart, perhaps. A melancholy fanfare that could symbolise an ending- or a beginning.

The catch breaks on the window, then. The wind rushes into his room, ice on his skin. The lights extinguish themselves, and he is plunged into darkness.

But the radio plays on, whispering its secrets to him under the hum of static.

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 **This is going to be weird, artistic and slightly AU. Uh... I hope you enjoy.**


	2. The Only Difference

**I don't own the rights to bread or AFYCSO.**

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 _It seems the artists these days are not who you think, so we'll pick back up on that on another page..._

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It occurs to Joey that he lives in a world made of glass. The streets are paved with it, slippery and fragile; if people stare down, they see their reflections and nothing more. But somehow, he is unable to shatter the glass walls that threaten to close in around him.

Has he always been so cynical, or has Roxy's departure left him sour, like a fruit left to shrivel and fester? Some say that when they are sad, the world loses its lustre; he feels the opposite, that now he can see the glitter and shine of the world around him. But it is too glittering, too bright for his eyes to handle. Because this brightness, this dazzling façade, is false. A top coat of paint, licked over a drab, grey world.

People glance at him, often. Of course they recognise him, and of course he should expect that. He gives them the grin, the trademarked Boswell grin that moulds to his face so naturally now. He slips into the façade, that is far too well known. A brash ' _Greetings_ ,', a cocky stride, bursting through the doors. And there is gossip surrounding him like flies, as usual. The people of the city care far too much, and all in the wrong ways. They thirst for secrets, scandals and lies- and drink them up like a mother's milk, sucking greedily. The Boswells are the cornerstone of the gossip mill, the crucial piece. And he knows it is their fault, in a way. Their family go against the tide, make themselves known, and therefore instigate the rumours that fly.

Of course, one word spurs the rumours to turn in a new direction. Like a drop of black ink on white cloth, it spreads and grows, blotting everything else from view.

" _...Broke off their engagement..._ "

" _She cheated on him..._ "

" _He cheated on her..._ "

" _He got her pregnant, so she left..._ "

Don't they have anything better to do, than to speculate and spread lies about a man they barely know?  
It pains him, but he knows, and has always known, that they do not. And his reputation was never pristine, but now the odds shift dramatically away from his favour. The balance has been tipped, and those he pass eye him warily, their lips buzzing with the 'news' about he and Roxy. The 'usuals' in the DHSS office shuffle over on the worn, patchy chairs as they wait, placing their heads together for blatant gossiping. Like a game of Chinese Whispers, the 'news' spirals further and further out of control.

 _"Joey Boswell? Ooh, no, 'e's not charming at all. Did you know 'is fiancee left him? Why? Oh, well, apparently he was cheating on 'er with this leggy blonde from up in Gateacre. You know the type, red lips and big bust, father's an estate agent... And, 'e got the girl up the duff! Just like 'is father, that one..."_

They're ridiculous, the rumours, as fictional as a tale spun with glass slippers, mermaids and poison apples. But children believe fairytales as they are desperate to prove the existence of magic- and so the childlike, immature minds of the people around them believe this story, because they ache and burn for it, to twist the lives of others into a story. No one would read a fairytale without a villain, after all. Perhaps Hansel and Gretel walked through the woods and the witch was merely an old woman, offering them innocent sweets for sustenance- but the Brothers Grimm would not sell a tale so plain. Better twist it, spin the old woman into a witch, with a sadistic ploy to dine on the children. Warped minds lap that poison up. Putting it simply; Joey Boswell has been painted as the villain of this picture.

Roxy is the one who ran from his arms, and did not stop running until she collapsed in the bed of another. Roxy is the one who lied, ceaselessly. But the world sees Roxy as the innocent maiden in the tower, Joey the skulking monster below.

He tries to tell them. But his words fall on deaf ears, tongue heavy. Because their ears are blocked to the truth, and they do not listen.

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 **I'm not at all happy with this chapter, to be honest. I think it's pretty awful. But... ugh, whatever. I tried to ensure this piece was influenced by 'The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage', but I don't think it turned out the way I wanted. Which is a shame, because that is one of my favourite songs on the album.**

 **Also... the next chapter is going to be Martina-centric, hopefully! Which I'm excited about.**

 **I also plan to update this a few more times today, if possible, as due to fanfiction servers being annoying I wasn't able to for the past few days, plus I am going to be at my Aunt and Uncle's snow house once again this weekend and the internet there is sort of touch-and-go.**

 **Anyway, see you next chapter, Trophy Boys and Trophy Wives ;)**

 **-London**


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